


Heart in Hiding

by BashfulBunny (Aequoreavictoria)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: "Trouser" Ripper, Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst with a Happy Ending, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Honeymoon, M/M, Multiple chapters, Non-Graphic Violence, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Neglect, Pining John, Pining John Watson, Pining Sherlock, Protective Sherlock, References to Child Prostitution, References to Child Sexual Slavery, References to Sexual Slavery, Romance, Teen John Watson, Tender Sex, Travel, True Love, Victorian Sherlock Holmes, Wedding Night, mature themes, non-graphic, victorian romance, victorianlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-02 06:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4050610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aequoreavictoria/pseuds/BashfulBunny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Heart in Hiding is an historical romance set in Victorian era Britain just prior to the 1877-78 Russian-Turkish War.  Lord Holmes (Sherlock), Earl of Ashling, is sent to Turkey on a diplomatic mission by his dictatorial cousin Mycroft, Marquis of Bosham and Chief Adviser to the British Foreign Secretary. In Constantinople, youthful John Watson, abused by his stepfather, flees his home in fear for his life only to find himself subject to the mysterious Lord Holmes, who, it quickly becomes obvious, is something other than he appears to be…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Historical facts and geography are generally accurate.

1876 Constantinople, Turkey

"Dearest Sherlock, do not play with me! Gerald isn't to return for at least another week. Why must you leave tomorrow?" The woman, elaborately attired in a shockingly low-cut and lavishly trimmed blood-red ball gown raised her face appealingly to the gentleman standing close to her under a rose arbour in the garden of the British Embassy.

Her companion was a tall, darkly handsome young man, impeccably dressed in exquisitely tailored Rocola evening-wear, which, despite his youth, he wore with a careless ease. He replied, his voice sonorous in the quiet twilight of the garden, "I deeply regret that I must Irene, I wish I could stay." Lord Holmes raised her fingers to his lips, "But there is important work for me to do in England."

"What work? We here well know that you were sent by the Prime Minister only for the purpose of convincing the Queen that he is taking her fears of Russian expansion seriously – which he is not. But regardless, your mission is accomplished so let us enjoy ourselves!"

Lord Holmes gave a low laugh, "You don't flatter me Irene! Nevertheless, although it pains me deeply, I must leave. You know I will treasure, always, the memory of our time together in this beautiful city. Truly, Constantinople is the only city in the world that is a worthy backdrop for your own incomparable beauty."

The couple was not aware that a sandy haired youth, to all appearances just a boy, was perched silently above the arbour in one of the many ornamental cedars that surrounded the garden, listening to the exchange below. John, the observer in the tree, hadn't intended to eavesdrop. He often came to this place to think when he needed peace and quiet. The scent of the ever-blooming roses soothed him; reminding him of his mother, now long dead. He was not accustomed to company.

Distractedly, for John had his own troubles on his mind, he wondered at the gentleman's extravagant compliments to Lady Adler. Foolish fellow, he thought. Lady Adler might appear sweet and genuine in her affections but she was, in fact, not only the most unfaithful of the diplomats' wives staying at the embassy but also a ruthless schemer. If Lord Holmes thought he was enjoying just another of his many highly gossiped-about affairs with simply a bored diplomat's wife, he was seriously mistaken.

Not surprising though, reflected John. He might be handsome but rumour had it that Lord Holmes was more interested in frippery than diplomacy and was sent to various outposts of the empire, not on errands of importance but rather for the purpose of keeping him out of trouble in London. His missions were meant to appease the head of the Holmes family, the Marquis of Bosham, who insisted his cousin should be kept occupied. Such was young Lord Holmes' reputation that when the news of his imminent arrival had reached the embassy, one of the more senior diplomats had snorted out a laugh and commented, "Holmes? That vacuous clotheshorse? We must be out of favour indeed." Lady Adler, however, had perked up at the news of Lord Holmes' visit with a calculating look in her dark eyes. Although what she might want with Lord Holmes, beyond the obvious, John couldn't imagine.

The two below John in the garden were now locked in a passionate embrace which caused John to look away in irritation. Of all places, why had they chosen the location that he considered to be his sanctuary for their illicit liaison? Not that he wanted to examine the cause of his annoyance, after all, what did he care who Lord Holmes chose to give his obviously exceptional kisses to? (Obviously exceptional based on the sighs emanating from Lady Adler). The information he had overheard regarding Lord Holmes travel plans was invaluable to him.

A sudden spill of light and laughter from the ballroom of the embassy interrupted the dark quiet of the garden as someone opened one of the many French windows to let in the cool evening air. The disturbance interrupted the two lovers in the rose garden. They pulled apart quickly, obviously not wishing to be seen in an intimate entanglement and turning they began to make their way back inside.

Out in the once more dim silence of the garden, John moved for the first time in many minutes, wincing in pain as the bark of the tree scraped his raw back and bruised legs and arms. He tried to ignore the pain and the suffocating sense of shame that washed over him as he struggled to move. Why had he never been able to stand up to his stepfather, he wondered? He despised himself for the weakness and fear that he felt in the presence of the man. John was seventeen now, almost eighteen, not a boy anymore, but still he felt powerless to defend himself when confronted with his stepfather's aggressive hatred for him. Blinded by shame, however, John failed to recognize his own overwhelming disadvantage relative to his stepfather including the smallness of his stature, as much a result of childhood neglect as familial inheritance, and his near constant state of injury including a chronic limp, disabled shoulder and a debilitating tremor in his left hand.

Never mind, he thought fiercely as he made his way slowly from the cedar to the apple tree that overhung the embassy's garden wall. Tomorrow, if everything went as planned, he would escape Constantinople aboard Lord Holmes' sleek private yacht the Wind Shadow to a safer and better life. The yacht was now moored at the city's busy docks but as John had just heard she would tomorrow be setting sail for England. He intended to be on-board, well hidden and safe at last from his stepfather before she began the first leg of her journey home. He had no time for morose thoughts; he must move quickly to make his preparations for the trip and say goodbye to Molly.

Landing on the drive as ably as he could, given his injuries, and staying well inside the shadow of the wall John made his way home. He lived with his stepfather, Major Williams, who was in charge of the Guard for the British embassy. The major had reached this disappointing career-low after failing at a series of more important positions due to his excessive drinking. Always cruel, he was now a bitter, violent man who took his frustration out on his gentle stepson. His treatment of John had not gone unnoticed in the small British community in the city but few were willing to openly censure the Major's behaviour. He held what was still an important position at the embassy and, in a time when the threat of Russian invasion was very real, no one wanted to risk crossing Major Williams.

No one, that is, except Molly Hooper. Molly was the daughter of the doctor posted to the embassy and John's only friend. She had done all that she could to help John during their growing-up years, providing him with meals and medicine from the dispensary as often as she could. They shared a mutual passion for medical science, which provided the only joy John had in his restrictive life.

When he reached his home, John gathered his jacket and a blanket and forced his sore feet into the only pair of boots he owned. He had no money to take with him but he had three pieces of his mother's jewellery carefully sewn into the lining of his canvas jacket; a locket containing her picture, a small diamond ring and a crescent moon diamond brooch, the latter especially treasured because it had been a gift to her from her beloved first husband, John's father. They were all John possessed in the world; he had found them years ago at the bottom of a long forgotten trunk in their small attic and had kept them a carefully guarded secret from his stepfather ever since.

Without wasting a single backward glance at the drunkenly passed-out Major, John left their quarters for the last time. He made his way to the surgery door where Molly was waiting for him with a packet of food and a flask of water.

"If you are careful John, this is enough for three days, long enough to get you to Athens," she whispered. Then overwhelmed, she choked, "Are you sure John? Maybe this isn't a good idea. What if you're caught? It might be even worse than…" at this she trailed off.

He tried to reassure her, "Don't worry. You know how careful I am Molly. I will be fine. I'll send word as soon as I get to England, I promise."

Molly gave him a brave smile and nodded, unable to speak. With a final whispered thank you, he kissed her cheek and turned in the direction of the harbour, vanishing quickly from her sight in the now dense darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Despite the discomfort of his back John was able to doze in the semi-darkness of the hold of the Wind Shadow. His torn flannel shirt was sticking painfully to the scabs now forming on the wounds left by his stepfather's whip, but he was now able to rest knowing that the anxiety and fear of the last several days was behind him.

To his immense relief his plan had unfolded without incident. Thankfully, as he had depended upon, Lord Holmes had not returned to the yacht the previous night (no doubt making the most of his last night with Lady Adler thought John with uncharacteristic pique). When the crew members on the Wind Shadow transferred watch at 4:00 AM, John had been able, small and light as he was, to slip over the stern of the boat unnoticed in the darkness and creep down into the hold.

That had been almost a full day ago. Night was falling again; the faint light from the one visible porthole was fast disappearing and there was a brisk wind, John could hear the distant hum of the rigging above. The movement of the boat was steady, just a smooth rising and falling over sloping waves. He gave a deep sigh; the further the boat sailed from Constantinople the safer he felt and he judged that by now they must be well into the Sea of Marmara, perhaps even approaching the Dardanelles.

As he rested, he tried not to remember the events leading up to his sudden flight from home. What had forced him to flee was so shaming that he hadn't even told Molly of it. Of course the beatings had been bad and the rumors of a Russian invasion frightening but neither of those things compared to the terror he'd felt when he found out, just two days ago, what his stepfather had been planning for him.

It had begun with John approaching his stepfather to ask about the small fund he knew that his mother had set aside for his education before she died. The Major had been furious with John and raged at him about the excessive cost of his keep as it was, let alone finding any extra money for schooling. It was with a sense of despair that John realized the Major had spent the money and had no intention of honouring John's mother's wishes. Feeling sick at heart when he was finally able to make his escape, John had hardly heard his stepfather raging on about how he was a costly burden that the Major could no longer afford.

None of it was true of course, John's late father had left a considerable amount of money to his wife and infant son, but once John's mother, always a delicate woman and desperately lost without John's father, had been bullied into marrying the Major, she had lost control of the money. Grief-stricken and hopeless she had succumbed to her weak health and had died while John was still very young.

Major Williams had spent all of John's education funds on himself leaving none of it for John's benefit. That he was now financially broke was entirely due to his own drinking and gambling habits. He was so much in debt, in fact, that he had had to sell most of their possessions and John knew of little left that was of any value.

It was two days after the his stepfather's tirade over his schooling that John, heeding a sixth sense, halted in the darkness on the cellar stairs upon hearing a stranger's voice coming from his stepfather's study. Unbeknownst to his stepfather, he was in the cellar to collect a jar of the applesauce that Molly had given him which was to be his mid-day meal. His stepfather had returned home unexpectedly at luncheon; the reason, it was clear, was to meet with the unknown caller who was with him in his study. John strained to hear what was being said, but he was able to make out very few of the words spoken. He heard his name, followed by raised voices, seemingly arguing about money. With the hair prickling on the back of his neck, John tried to hear more of the conversation but he could make out nothing further. Perhaps his stepfather was drawing them into more debt with an ill-advised loan he thought despairingly.

When he heard the heavy footsteps of his stepfather approaching the kitchen door, John hastily retreated back down to the cellar again where he was able, through years of practice, to escape out its small window. He emerged from the window just in time to hear his stepfather bellow for him from their front porch. In the back garden John drew a shaking breath and rounded the corner of the house in answer to his stepfather's summons.

Major Williams grasped John's sore shoulder and pulled John into his study, declaring that he had someone who wished to meet him. Fearful, although he wasn't certain why, John watched warily as the unknown man whose voice he had heard turned from the window to face him. He was an expensively dressed older man, heavy and oily in appearance with a puffy face; showing clear signs of dissipation around his pouched eyes and thin lips. His hooded gaze slid over John in a calculating manner, lingering on the boyish line of John's small waist and hips. He gave no greeting, nor did John's stepfather introduce him. Instead, in a manner which made John's skin crawl, the stranger licked his lips and indicated with one finger to John that he should turn to face the wall. Reluctantly John obeyed, only to shiver in revulsion as he felt the stranger's eyes slide down his back. John spun around quickly to face both men again, backing instinctively toward the perceived safety of the study's desk.

The stranger was clearly aware of John's discomfort for he smiled knowingly and murmured, "You are a shy boy, John?" It was all John could do not to flinch away as the man then reached out with moist, plump fingers to stroke John's blond hair and smooth cheek. "You will learn to be less shy with me."

Even his voice is wet, thought John frantically.

"You see? He's very young, just turned 13," John's stepfather lied. "And I've kept a firm hand on him, he's been nowhere he shouldn't, I can guarantee that," he blustered.

A faint flush appeared on the stranger's face and neck and his fingers shook slightly as they played with the lower buttons of his silk vest. He nodded and stared at John again, dwelling hawk-like on his small frame and peach-smooth chin and cheeks. By now trembling and mute with unnamed horror, John's relief was overwhelming when his stepfather ordered him out of the study to make tea for their guest. John did so, but when he returned with a tray of tea the stranger had gone.

That night, determined to learn what his stepfather was planning, John stayed home. He intended to search the study for anything that would indicate what business his stepfather had had with the repulsive man who had visited that afternoon. In doing so he had been unable to escape the Major's anger and had suffered yet another beating. Mercifully, the Major had succumbed to liquor earlier in the evening than usual and knowing it was urgent, John had forced his pain-seared body down the stairs to his stepfather's study. He searched thoroughly but found nothing among the papers in the desk or the Major's files. He then searched a cabinet and a side-table also to no avail. Finally, in the wastebasket under the desk he found the answer he'd been seeking: it was a draft bill-of-sale bearing the seal of a well-known market trader in Constantinople. And as John had read the document, it became sickeningly clear what his stepfather was intending; for there, crumpled but visible in bold ink was John's name alongside which had been written the sum of £1,000 and below this the unmistakable signature of his stepfather, Major Williams. The shock and fear John had felt as he realized the danger he was in had paralyzed his breathing to the point that he'd had to struggle not to faint.

The man who had wished to meet him was a buyer and seller of boys! It seemed incredible! John could hardly believe that his stepfather would stoop so low as to sell his own stepson into prostitution but every instinct told John it was true. Shocked and frightened he tried to be rational, to think of what he could do to save himself. While he knew little of prostitution, he was aware of the lucrative slave trade carried out by Barbary pirates in waters throughout the Mediterranean region; the practice had been going on for centuries. He knew also of Constantinople's slave market and he had even heard the rumours of light skinned, fair-haired boys in Turkey's bathhouses and coffee houses, there to fulfill the desires of the men who paid for them. But a lot of gossip circulated among the bored expatriate community and he'd purposely ignored most of it. However, now it was clear that, at least in this, it had been fact and no false rumour.

Forcing down his panic, knowing that he must think and act quickly to save himself, he had limped out of their quarters and into the dark garden to try to clear his mind. Standing in the still night air he could hear distant music and laughter from the embassy's ballroom and remembered Molly's recounting of Lord Holmes' visit. He recalled her laughing at how the female guests were interested in Lord Holmes himself while the men were for more interested in the yacht on which Lord Holmes had arrived. The Wind Shadow was said to be the fastest and most modern in design of any of its class in the Empire. Speculation was that it could reach England in seven days from Constantinople, an un-heard-of time for private yachts. Remembering this, the seeds of John's escape plan were sown. It was simple enough, although risky; all he had to ascertain was when the boat would be embarking on her homeward journey and to ensure he was aboard when she did. He would start his information gathering with Molly.

Now in the Wind Shadow's hold, John tried to force the memories of the last two days away, deciding to sip some of his limited water supply and eat a small amount of the bread and hard cheese that Molly had given him. It helped to think of Molly and remember the lively conversations he had enjoyed with her about medicine, which he loved. They had shared with each other their dreams of one day practising the new medicine pioneered by Florence Nightingale, famous for her nursing work during the Crimean War just a few years earlier, and John's hero, Joseph Lister, the brilliant British surgeon. The distraction helped to quiet his mind and after a short time, in his weakened state, he began to drift into a light sleep once more.

Sometime later he was awoken again but this time not by the soothing motion of waves but rather to the frighteningly loud thud of the hatch door being opened and dropped and footsteps thumping down the ladder into the hold. Clearly someone was entering his hiding place. As John listened, to his alarm, whoever it was didn't restrict their search, as would be expected, to the main storage area. He could see lantern light approaching him as they worked their way up to the rarely used space under the bow where John had hidden himself. His heart pounding, he shrank back behind the coils of rope he had chosen to hide behind and held his breath while whoever had entered his hideout searched among the boxes and supplies stacked around him.

Unable to stand the strain and knowing there was nothing he could do, he hid his head under his arms and made himself as small as possible, and, with a sense of the inevitable, waited to be discovered. Sure enough, it was only a matter of seconds before the lamp swung his way and he heard from above his head a sharp exclamation of, "'ere! Who's this?!" followed by a shout for another crew member.

Once a second man had arrived, John stiff and speechless with dread, was pulled firmly, although not roughly, from the hold. There was another shout for someone named Hudson while John, trying to stay alert, nevertheless, felt himself becoming increasingly light-headed from shock and fear. A new wave of dread filled him as a wrinkled, freckled, red-haired man appeared before him, horribly disfigured by a missing ear and a large scar on his cheek. This frightening apparition grasped John's arm and said firmly, "Come along young man. Lord Holmes will need to see you." He then surprised John by adding an introduction, "I'm his Lordship's valet, Hudson."

John tried to cooperate but by now was very weak and finding walking difficult, so their progress to the stern of the boat where Lord Holmes cabin seemed to be was slow. To John's humiliation, he required Hudson's support more than once, which was provided surprisingly gently, to prevent him from stumbling and falling.

When they finally reached what was evidently Lord Holmes' cabin, Hudson wasted little time knocking and entering. John had been trying to prepare himself for being brought before the Earl but was unsure what to expect now the moment had arrived. Whatever he'd imagined though, it was certainly not the scene that met him. The large cabin was littered with books, journals, papers and maps, many of the latter pinned haphazardly to the walls in complete disregard for the pristine mahogany woodwork. Lord Holmes was there, but looking nothing like he had the previous evening. He was without a coat, his shirt collar was open at his throat, his sleeves were rolled up to the elbows and his dark curly hair was wildly dishevelled. Notebook, pen and map pins in hand, he had the appearance of a mad professor in the midst of a scientific experiment gone awry. He certainly wasn't, as his reputation might have suggested, the picture of a self-indulgent nobleman lounging indolently with a bottle of claret at his elbow.

At Hudson's knock and entrance, Lord Holmes whirled to glare fiercely at him, a sharp rebuke for the interruption obviously ready on his tongue. But at the sight of John standing limply beside his valet, he stilled before narrowing ice-blue eyes and fixing John with a piercing stare.

After a moment of profound silence, Lord Holmes said in a mild tone that belied the stare, "Ah, a stowaway, Hudson. Interesting." Then sharply, directed at John, "Who are you?"

It was all suddenly too much for John. He gave up any pretense of coping because really, what was the use now that he had been caught? Giving himself up to a fog of misery, he heard himself mutter,

"John Watson," in response to Lord Holmes' question and, with almost a sense of relief, felt himself begin to slide to the floor in a wave of darkness.

In truth, his name was John Watson; his father had been the highly respected Sir John Watson, MS, FRCS, and a knighted surgeon. It had been Major Williams who had insisted that John take his last name when John's mother had remarried.

At the sight of John slipping to the floor, Lord Holmes strode across the room, reaching John's side just in time to assist Hudson to guide him to a low cushioned sofa positioned along one wall of the cabin. Hearing what he guessed to be the sound of books and papers hitting the floor upon being hastily swept from the sofa seat, John next heard Lord Holmes request wine and a blanket from Hudson before he succumbed to his pain, exhaustion and overwhelming feeling of defeat. His attempt at escape, it seemed, was over before it had really even begun.


	3. Chapter 3

As John began to recover his senses the first thing he saw as he opened his eyes was Lord Holmes' startlingly bright gaze fixed upon his face. John stared back somewhat dazedly, not sure how long his fainting spell had lasted. A blanket had been placed over him and a glass of wine was sitting on a side table next to him.

Seeing that he was awake, Lord Holmes leaned forward and spoke quietly, "John, I'm Lord Holmes, although I think you already know that. I want to assure you that there is no need to be afraid. I mean you no harm. We are alone in the cabin but there is no one on this vessel who will harm you either, you may take my word for that." When John didn't reply, he continued, "Hudson is not nearly as fearsome as he appears. At present, he is preparing something for you to eat." He glanced at the side table. "I'd like you to try to sit up and take a sip of the wine when you feel able, alright?"

John managed to nod at this request and began to struggle to an upright position. Lord Holmes leaned forward to assist him; his hands light on John's upper arms, steadying him in case he should collapse again and John was grateful for him not placing a hand or an arm on his agonized back. He clutched the blanket in embarrassment to hide his injuries, causing the man before him to press his lips together in a firm line and frown. John's left hand trembled uncontrollably but otherwise he tried to appear confident and unafraid. There was silence as he sipped the wine and Lord Holmes continued to observe him closely.

When John had finished and replaced the glass on the table, Lord Holmes spoke. "John, I am unfamiliar with children such as yourself, in general, and stowaways as a sub-set particularly. However, I believe, and Hudson has confirmed, that our present circumstances call for the exercise of social responsibility on my part." He didn't sound irritated, he seemed to be merely reviewing the facts. John made a sound of protest but was silenced by a wave of Lord Holmes' hand as he continued, "As I have no knowledge or experience in this area, I will be taking a consultative approach to carrying out my duty." After this puzzling announcement Lord Holmes fell silent; steepling his fingers against his chin in a gesture suggesting deep thought. John who was now feeling light-headed from the wine in addition to exhausted, had no trouble remaining quiet.

When Lord Holmes finally spoke again it was to say, "I need more information, John. What was the reason for your stowing away on this vessel and what did your plan specifically entail?"

John managed to rally his fuzzy thoughts and mumble, "I had to leave home in Constantinople and I cannot go back. I was planning to go ashore in Athens and then to take a seaman's job perhaps on a merchant ship and work my way back to England. That's all."

After another moment's silence Lord Holmes narrowed his eyes and said softly, "Ah, but that's not nearly all, is it John? There is much more to your story than that."

"I, I don't know what you mean," whispered John warily.

Lord Holmes raised one eyebrow, locked his gaze on John once more, and began to speak. "You've run away from home due to threats against your life and grievous violence perpetrated against your person. You are an only child and motherless; nearly friendless too by the look of it. No more than thirteen perhaps fourteen years of age, judging by your appearance although you project a maturity beyond your years, probably due to your being forced to look after yourself at a very young age. Your father holds an important position at the British embassy. He is almost certainly militarily trained…assigned to the Guard perhaps? You have an interest and an unusual talent for medicine, specifically surgery…You haven't given me your real name, obviously you fear being returned forcibly to your home. You are trying to reach England, most likely in search of your mother's family who you hope will welcome you. And you have no money likely due to the fact that your father is a drunkard and a gambler."

Lord Holmes paused for effect. "That is what I mean, John."

John, stunned at this intimate assessment of himself by a complete stranger, stared back at Lord Holmes in alarm. "How could you possibly know all that?" he choked. "Was it Dr. Hooper? But Molly promised…"

An unexpectedly warm chuckle erupted from Lord Holmes, "Calm yourself John Watson, no one told me anything. I simply observe that is all."

"But how then…?"

In a swift mood change, Lord Holmes' gaze hardened into something coldly dangerous before he began to speak once more. "Your back is covered with injuries and bruising consistent with beatings, not just one, many over time. A family member then, someone you live with. You are an only child because if you had a sibling they would be with you, as you, John, are not a brother who would abandon a sibling. Your assailant is clearly an army man because your wounds and scars are consistent with military discipline, most notably the whipping." Again the cold blue eyes flashed dangerously. "A British military man living in Constantinople? He could only be living at the British embassy, most likely assigned to guard duty, because there are no British fighting forces stationed in Turkey at present. Since most of your neighbours and acquaintances have been unwilling to help you, your father holds an influential position, probably Head of the Guards then. Motherless because a mother typically would have tried to prevent a father from beating their child even if only in the child's younger years, which clearly didn't happen."

He continued in a softer tone, "Your unusual gift for medicine, specifically surgery, is evident in the skillfully executed sutures done by yourself using your right hand, your non-dominant hand, on the wound to your left arm. The wound has healed perfectly with no infection suggesting advanced knowledge of modern antiseptics. It is at least a year old. Performing surgery on your own wounds at age twelve or thirteen? You show an extraordinary talent John Watson."

He continued gently, "You chose this boat to stow away on even though there were other ships in the harbour which would have posed less of a risk of detection for you than a private yacht, yet you chose this one, leaving yesterday, which means that something different occurred recently that necessitated you fleeing your home immediately." Lord Holmes eyes narrowed speculatively here. "I don't know what, clearly something very frightening, but no matter, since you have successfully escaped."

John blinked. "I have?" he asked weakly.

Lord Holmes continued as if John hadn't spoken. "And how did you know the Wind Shadow would be leaving for England today?" It was a rhetorical question but before answering it, he leaned forward and plucked a small piece of cedar bark from John's trousers, stuck there by a drop of pitch. "Fresh pitch, still soft, from an ornamental cedar, an English variety, not native to Turkey but found surrounding the embassy gardens, most notably, as far as you are concerned, immediately above the rose arbour where yesterday Lady Adler and I, er….discussed my plans to sail for England today. Am I correct?"

For several seconds John, his troubles momentarily forgotten, could only stare at Lord Holmes before he blurted aloud in awe, "That was amazing!"

At John's exclamation, Lord Holmes, suddenly looking very young himself, flashed a surprised and pleased grin, "You think so, John?"

"Yes, my Lord, I do!"

Had John been any more alert he would have been surprised by the fleeting appearance of something like confusion or even less likely, bashfulness on Lord Holmes' face at John's exclamation of admiration. Whatever it was, however, it disappeared upon the interruption of Hudson entering the cabin at that moment, bearing food on a tray for John.

"Some soup and tea for Master John," said Hudson comfortably, placing the tray on the table beside John. "And may I suggest something for yourself to eat, my Lord?"

Lord Homes waved a hand airily and said, "You know I never eat while I'm on a case, Hudson."

"Yes, my lord," sighed his valet with a resigned nod. He continued, perking up noticeably at the prospect of having someone to look after who might welcome his ministrations, "Shall I make up a cabin for Master John?"

Glancing at John who was swaying tiredly although making a valiant effort to drink his soup, Lord Holmes nodded in agreement.

As Hudson withdrew, Lord Holmes turned to John once more. He laid a light hand on his good shoulder. "I suggest you allow Hudson to assist you to bed, John." And then seeing John's anxious expression he continued firmly, "I assure you that I have no intention of returning to Constantinople. Even if I didn't heartily dislike the place, we would continue to the Aegean with all haste regardless of your unexpected appearance. It's imperative that we reach England as soon as possible. And, since this is consistent with your own expressed wishes, I trust that you will still be aboard ship in the morning so we may discuss your circumstances further. Do I have your word on this?"

There was no mistaking the message behind this request and John hesitated. How could Lord Holmes have known that for John, the warm oblivion of the Mediterranean Sea was far preferable to returning to his former home?

Watching the expressions cross John's sensitive face, Lord Holmes prompted softly, "John?"

John, struggling for courage, finally raised his eyes and replied, but in no more than a whisper, "Yes, my Lord."

John couldn't have asked for a more tender nurse than Hudson. Full of trepidation at first, he soon calmed as he was helped out of his clothes and assisted to bathe with solemn dignity. The wounds on his back were tended with ointment and bandages. He was then swathed in a far too-long night-shirt made of a softer material than he could have imagined existed, Lord Holmes' no doubt John realized to his discomfort, feeling he shouldn't be wearing his Lordship's night clothes. But when he expressed this worry to Hudson, it was simply met with an aggrieved, "Better that someone should get some use out of it."

Thus reassured, John was settled for sleep. Hudson left a carafe of water by his bedside, lit a comfortingly dim night lamp, wished him a polite good night and quietly withdrew. John was asleep in seconds.


	4. Chapter 4

Hudson's solicitous attention to John resumed in the morning. He arrived in John's cabin at the same time as a pink and blue dawn made its appearance through John’s porthole, ushering in another brilliant day at sea. Delighted with such an appreciative charge, Hudson had outdone himself by procuring not only a full breakfast but also a suit of clothing for John, obtained, he informed him, from the Captain who had purchased it from one of Constantinople’s expert tailors for his eldest son. Seeing John's face upon learning this, Hudson reassured him firmly that the Captain had been generously reimbursed and as his lordship’s guest John was to think nothing further of it.

Once breakfast was finished and his injured back once more attended to, John, comfortably and handsomely dressed in a new linen shirt and light-weight broadcloth trousers, was bidden to go above deck to take in the fresh sea air. Once there, he paused to watch the early sunlight reflect up from the sea in what looked like a fountain of diamonds glistening against the Wind Shadow’s pristine white hull. As he strolled past the wheelhouse, John was surprised to receive a courteous nod from a seaman polishing brass. He was unaware that Hudson, at Lord Holmes direction, had informed the Captain that John was now a guest of his Lordship and was to be treated accordingly.

After his walk John returned below deck just in time to be met by Hudson with a tray in hand, and accompanied to Lord Holmes' cabin. As they had been the night before, books and papers were still strewn about haphazardly. Adding to the chaos, a large map was now mounted on the wall, stuck generously with clusters of pins connected with coloured thread. The young Lord himself, if anything, appeared even more dishevelled than he had the previous evening. Had he been working all night John wondered? And if so, at what?

"Tea, your Lordship," said Hudson in a voice that brooked no argument.

Lord Holmes greeted John with a pleased smile but immediately resumed his pacing. Taking the cup that Hudson pressed into his hand, he swallowed tea absently and said, "In fact, Hudson, I could use your assistance..." but stopped upon catching the long-suffering expression on his valet's face and exclaimed, "But I need an assistant!"

"Perhaps I could help." John could have bitten his tongue at the presumptuousness of this statement. He was nobody and nothing to Lord Holmes except a nuisance and a burden. He cast his eyes downward in humility waiting for a reprimand or worse.

Instead, Lord Holmes stopped short and studied him thoughtfully for a moment before saying slowly, as if thinking out loud, "John…yes, you've studied Latin. For medicine. Yes, I believe you can help me…"

Surprised wonder washed over John as Lord Holmes waved him over to his desk and launched into a rapid-fire description of the problem confounding him. "It's a code, the basis of which appears to be Latin. I'm working on establishing the sequences but I need assistance matching letters to words…" 

He continued at great speed, astonishing John with his obvious intelligence. John's head was beginning to reel, trying to reconcile the version of Lord Holmes he'd observed with Lady Adler with the animated young man now before him. Failing, he sat down at the desk in front of the pile of books set in front of him by Lord Holmes and put his mental energy toward the task asked of him, finding the letters and words were not too difficult to follow.

When Hudson returned with another tray a couple of hours later, he saw the two heads, one dark and one fair, so close together they were almost touching, bent over the large desk, studying the books before them in complete concentration. He allowed himself a small smile before returning his face to its usual composure and announcing coffee.

……………………

"Curse the blasted woman! And curse bloody Mycroft as well!"

"My Lord," cautioned Hudson, who was dusting and saw John start nervously at Lord Holmes’ outburst.

"I beg your pardon, John," Lord Holmes said quietly, touching an apologetic hand briefly to the top of John’s head, "I'm merely expressing frustration over a case that is taking far longer than it should to solve."

"A woman? Lady Adler?" asked John timidly.

"Hmmmm, yes, the woman," was the distracted response from Lord Holmes as he sat down and sank into thought.

"But I thought you and she were… well…"

Alert again, Lord Holmes looked up, "Were what?" 

Hudson turned as well and brows drawn, both of them faced John with the same perplexed expression.

John blushed. "That you and Lady Adler were…romantically…um." His blush deepened.

Lord Holmes looked startled, "Good God no, John. I despise the woman!"

"Oh," said John faintly. But his heart felt lighter suddenly, for reasons he wasn’t sure of…

Hudson hid another small smile.

Lord Holmes grinned in John's direction, "Young John, do not believe everything you hear, or see, for that matter." His tone was affectionate rather than condescending. "Lady Adler was in possession of information that my cousin Mycroft wished to obtain. At his behest, when presented with the opportunity to take it, I did. In fact, John you were a witness to the event. It was well done, if I do say so myself," Lord Homes said with another grin.

John looked blank for a moment then blushed scarlet again as he remembered the tight clinch he'd witnessed from his perch in the cedar tree in the embassy garden.

"She was on her way to the Grand Duke's apartments at the Russian Embassy with the papers; I merely lightened her burden, so to speak. Ball gowns are cut indecently low in this day and age, don't you agree?" Lord Holmes actually winked at John then before closing his eyes and once more resuming his thinking posture.

John found it impossible to resist the grin that tugged at his lips as he bent once more to the task of translating the Latin before him. This time there was no hiding Hudson's smile as he quietly glided from the room.

At luncheon, Hudson insisted that John should stop work and eat; even coercing his Lordship into eating something by informing him that John's manners were such that he would only feel comfortable lunching if Lord Holmes did so as well. Surprisingly, Lord Holmes complied without argument, taking distracted bites of a sandwich. John, feeling better by the hour, enjoyed a good meal. He then reluctantly agreed to Hudson's suggestion of a rest; Hudson pointedly ignoring Lord Holmes' frown, which was presumably due to the idea of John leaving him for part of the afternoon.

Once rested and following another walk on deck, John rejoined Lord Holmes and set to work translating Latin once more. The breakthrough moment occurred in the late afternoon, when, with an elated clap of his hands and with an expression of excited delight, Lord Holmes leapt up and began digging through one of the piles of papers, selecting some and throwing others aside. "John! That's it, that's how it works! We've got it! Do you see?"

John shook his head bemusedly.

"There were two documents of code; one Lady Adler hid on her person, which later I began to suspect was a decoy, the other I found in her bedroom safe. You see, I had a sense that obtaining the first one had been too easy so I decided to search her room. I waited until she left for the Russian Embassy and in her room I did find and remove what I assumed was the real document." 

He grinned at John. "She will have discovered the theft by now."

He then continued, "I initially assumed the first paper was simply a decoy to allow me to think I had gotten the real one but it seems that the critical information can only be understood if one has both documents; an ingenious system really. It took twice as long to figure out than these types of cases usually do; 24 hours instead of 12."

Here he took a moment to look rueful before gleefully announcing again, "We are done John! Excellent," followed immediately by, "You must be hungry. Dinner?"

John, full of admiration at the brilliance of the man before him, found himself agreeing eagerly, "Yes, m’Lord!"


	5. Chapter 5

Dinner was a pleasure such as John had never experienced. Lord Holmes was dressed in evening wear; his astonishing good looks highlighted by a white linen shirt−stiffly starched and wing collared−covered by a low-cut, white, silk waistcoat. The white shirt and vest were offset by a black bow tie and cut-away dress coat with a glacé silk collar and blue paisley silk lining, while diamond shirt studs and cuff links sparkled at his neck and wrists. His dark curls gleamed, only partially tamed despite his best efforts with his two ivory backed hair brushes. His liquid silver eyes were bright with interest and his conversation animated. John was transfixed at the sight of him.

John himself did not have the option of evening wear but he was scrubbed clean, his hair neatly barbered by Hudson and although he was painfully thin and his leg and back clearly stiff, his tanned cheeks and sun lightened-hair gave him an adventurous air. His deep, blue eyes shone with happiness and his manners, Hudson observed, were faultless.

Hudson, it seemed, was equally as pleased as his diners, although given the indulgently knowing looks, discreetly hidden, that he gave the two young men sitting at the table, he was pleased with something more than simply a successful afternoon of code-breaking. He served a dinner fit for royalty with an Asian inspired menu; egg drop soup, spiced celery salad, Peking duck and a lighter-than-air sponge cake with Lychee nut preserves. Afterward he offered both young men brandy and cigars with seeming disregard for John's tender age. Neither young man noticed this in-congruence, happily absorbed in conversation as they were.

It was following dinner that the Captain appeared to inform his Lordship that bad weather was approaching. And indeed, already the sea was noticeably rougher and the boat was beginning to heave unsteadily.

The Captain gone once more, Lord Holmes rolled his eyes in irritation. "God, I hate sailing," he exclaimed. "Hudson, we are never going to sea again. I don't care what bloody Mycroft wants! The sooner we are back on solid ground, the better!"

"Yes, my Lord," murmured Hudson soothingly, going about the cabin securing anything loose that could possibly break should the motion of the boat became any worse.

And soon it did get worse. Very much worse. The rolling and pitching became violent enough that Hudson suggested to John that he might be more comfortable in his cabin. But John refused, shaking his head, wanting to stay with his host who was steadfastly attempting to ignore the disturbance.

As the evening progressed, the storm intensified. Shouts could be heard from on deck above the roar of the wind and waves, where the crew were struggling to control the vessel. Finally with a resigned huff, Lord Holmes turned to Hudson, who had just appeared with an update from the Captain, and requested oilskins and boots, announcing that he was going on deck to assist the crew.

"No!" exclaimed John and when both men stared at him in surprise, he stammered, "What I mean is, I'll come up too, I can be of help. I climb well and I'm light, I can go up the mast if needed."

Lord Holmes said sharply, "Certainly not, John! It's far too dangerous on deck! You will be swept away! You will stay here where it is safe!"

At the sight of John's stubborn expression, Lord Holmes cast a look of appeal in Hudson's direction, who came to his aid by saying, "John, if you would, I'll need your help below, we have what appears to be a broken arm and a concussion among the crew members…"

Finding this request impossible to refuse, John reluctantly complied. He very much wanted to stay with Lord Holmes, who he was certain was not an experienced sailor but could do nothing but follow Hudson to the boat's sick quarters. He was soon taken up in providing what medical treatment he could to the injured sailors. The Wind Shadow was well stocked with up-to-date medical supplies so he and Hudson were able to make them reasonably comfortable. Several times over the next few hours he asked Hudson about Lord Holmes and each time he was patiently assured that his Lordship was well.

At around midnight, the sea and wind at full force, the Wind Shadow gave a sudden sharp heel to port, knocking John and Hudson off their feet and a tremendous cracking sound was heard from above. "That will be the mast," said the implacable Hudson, on his feet in the next instant, and assisting John to stand.

John turned pale and whispered, "Sher.., I mean Lord Holmes!"

"Stay here, I will check on him," said Hudson and with surprising agility for his age he left the cabin before John could move.

Struggling to stay upright, John realized with alarm that the Wind Shadow was not righting herself, she remained heeled over at a terrifying angle. Listening, above deck he heard shouts of "Cut the sails! Cut the sails!" and realized with a stab of fear that with the mast broken, the sails must be dragging in the sea, their weight beginning to pull the boat under. There was a heart stopping several minutes before the men must have been able finally to cut the sails loose because the boat began to gradually right herself even while continuing to pitch and heel wildly, helplessly adrift now in the storm.

Just as John was able to gain his footing, the door was flung open and Lord Holmes strode in, looking anxiously around the sick bay, apparently for John because when he saw him, his expression eased and he asked, "All right here?"

John nodded, speechless with relief to see him but at the same time alarmed to see blood streaming down the side of his face to beneath his slicker. "You're hurt!" he said gesturing for Lord Holmes to sit on the nearest bunk and reaching for the contents of the upset medical kit strewn on the floor.

Putting an exploratory hand to his head and seeing it come away bloody, Lord Holmes nevertheless shrugged his shoulders and appeared as though he intended to leave again now that he had found John to be safe and sound.

"Sit!" said John, more sharply than he had intended.

Lord Holmes raised his eyebrows amused, "Doctor's orders, John Watson?"

John ducked his head and stepped back in humility, but Lord Holmes said lightly, with a wave of his hand, "No, no it's fine," and sitting, grinned at John, submitting his left temple for examination. "But I won't promise not to be the worst patient you've ever had."

John secured a carbolic acid soaked gauze and bandage to Lord Holmes' head, relieved to find that the wound was not deep. He knew the importance of keeping wounds clean, however, and made sure that Lord Holmes gash was thoroughly disinfected before he bandaged it.

Throughout the night as the storm continued, the Wind Shadow drifted at the mercy of the wind and waves. Without a mast and sails, there was nothing else they could do. John did not dwell on their dire situation; he was kept busy ensuring all his injured patients were comfortable including Lord Holmes. Apparently tired, Lord Holmes slept, lying down in the bunk where John had bandaged his head. With Hudson busy trying to allay the damage to the cabins and assess emergency supplies, John removed Lord Holmes' boots and slicker while he slept and covered him with a blanket. He was about to settle himself for a short rest seated on the floor beside Lord Holmes when a gentle hand reached out and guided him down on the bunk beside Lord Holmes, where he then felt the blanket pulled over him. In words so low he almost didn't hear them, Lord Holmes murmured, "Please rest here John, where I know where you are."

John, profoundly surprised by Lord Holmes' action, obeyed without protest. He was then even more surprised at the startling sensation of tranquility that began to suffuse his mind and body as he lay beside Lord Holmes. I ought to be frightened by this, he thought, why am I not? In fact, John was not only not frightened, he felt safe, protected, even. Confused, he was still trying to understand his inexplicable feelings when he drifted into an exhausted sleep, the roar of the wind and waves receding from his consciousness.


	6. Chapter 6

John awoke to a nudge on his shoulder and the offer of a steaming cup of tea from Hudson, who, if he saw anything unusual about his master giving up half of his bunk and all of his blanket to John beside him, gave no sign of it. Hudson is a miracle worker, thought John, striving to straighten his sore limbs and gratefully accepting the tea.

"It's near daylight, Master John, but the Captain isn't able to tell us where we are, the instruments smashed as they are from the boom hitting the wheelhouse. He thinks we've been blown back and have likely lost considerable distance.

John paled. "How far back, Hudson?"

Hudson appeared not to notice John's anxiety. "We were almost to Gelibolu before the storm hit. He thinks we are now back closer to Sarköy."

John's shoulders sagged with relief. Still in Turkey but at least nowhere close to Constantinople.

Hudson continued, "One blessing is that the shoreline in this region is not rocky, it's mostly sand so we won't be dashed on the rocks if it comes to that."

"Well, that's a relief to hear," grumbled Lord Holmes, rousing himself from his makeshift bed, clutching his head and groaning as he struggled upright. He fell silent then though and accepted the tea offered by Hudson without arguing. He sipped it quietly, allowing John to check his head wound. John thought his injury fine although it had bled considerably as head wounds often do.

"I must thank you John, for all your help last night, not only do you have valuable medical skills, but you showed courage that few men, let alone boys your age can demonstrate." Lord Holmes laid a light hand on John's arm.

John, struggling with shyness at this unexpected praise, nodded and blushed in embarrassment. "I… wanted to help," he stammered.

Lord Holmes smiled at him and seemed about to say something further, when Hudson re-entered the sick bay bringing another sailor with a severely bruised leg with him and John was called to assist.

In this manner the morning wore on, the boat floundering in the now sluggish waves of the dying storm. John and Hudson, in between caring for their patients, worked to put the cabins to rights and clear broken glass and crockery while Lord Holmes, back in his own cabin once more, dragged out and began to study a stack of maps and charts with single-minded intensity.

Around mid-morning, John had joined Lord Holmes to drink a cup of coffee and eat the omelette which Hudson had managed to prepare for them in what remained of the galley, when the first mate, acting on orders from the Captain who was fully occupied trying to keep the boat afloat, knocked on Lord Holmes' cabin door with a message.

Bidden to enter, he made his announcement, "The Captain's regards sir, we've spotted land to the west and also another vessel."

"Another vessel?" questioned Lord Holmes sharply, "In which direction?"

"Your pardon sir, it is toward land." The first mate paused and unable to resist adding his own gloomy prediction, said darkly, "Pirates, like as not in this God-forsaken part of the world."

Lord Holmes ignored the last comment. "Ask Captain Barrow to see me as soon as he is able. Thank you Henderson."

Henderson nodded respectfully and made his departure. Lord Holmes turned to address John but at the sight of his young charge's face the words died on his tongue. "John, what is it?!" he grasped John's arm as he took in his ashen face and trembling hand.

"Lord Holmes, please!" was all John could choke out, his eyes wide with fear.

"It's alright! Whatever it is that's upset you, it's alright, John…"

"No, Lord Holmes! Pirates…they capture people….to sell," mumbled John, his body beginning to shake.

Lord Holmes cursed the pessimistic temperament of the first mate as he laid a reassuring hand on John's shoulder. "No, John, you don't need to be afraid, it's not pirates. I can guarantee you that; the navy put an end to piracy in this part of the Mediterranean over five years ago. And John, even if it were pirates I would not allow anyone, most of all you, to be taken anywhere against your will."

Then, when he saw his words were having little effect on John's terror, in a move that would have astounded his acquaintances, he drew John into his arms and eased them both backward to the cushioned sofa where he sat and pulled John, stiff with fear, onto his lap.

John, in severe distress, clung tightly to his saviour. It was too terrible to find himself in perilous danger once more when he had thought himself safe at last. The threat was made all the worse by having met Lord Holmes whose respect and affection toward him contrasted so cruelly with the experiences of his former life. The thought of returning to the hell he'd escaped was all the more terrible for this. Now too, held in the security of Lord Holmes' arms, the possibly of being handed over to someone like the disgustingly depraved man who had touched him in his stepfather's study was unthinkable. The wonder of this comfort from Lord Holmes, which to anyone else would have been merely kindly, paternal affection, was a revelation to John. It made the possibility of being pawed or much worse by another man, an incalculable horror. John was utterly distraught and beyond reason.

"Would you… if I ask...would you? I would rather die than be taken. Do you understand?" John's voice was barely a whisper. "I cannot be captured, please…"

"Of course, yes, if I agree the circumstances offer no other option, then yes, you have my word, John."

Lord Holmes' response was unhesitating. All Englishmen understood that after the shocking events of Cawnpore, India in 1857, no honourable man would allow a woman or child to risk degradation at the hands of captors. Noble death was far preferable.

Lord Holmes and John both were silent for a long moment following this exchange, contemplating the magnitude of what had just passed between them. Strange, thought John, how the thought of dying at the hand of Lord Holmes doesn't frighten me. What is it about this man?

His introspection was interrupted by Lord Holmes asking, "It will not come to that, I assure you, but why are you so afraid of pirates, John?"

And when John did not answer, he continued, "It's something to do with your father, isn't it?" A sick sensation was rising in Lord Holmes' chest as he contemplated the possibilities. "He was planning something… a way to obtain money perhaps? Is that why you are here John?"

God, how does he know these things, wondered John, not for the first time since they met. Almost against his will, John gave a nod which Lord Holmes felt rather than saw, since John's face was pressed firmly against him. As John's affirmative response sank in, there was an appalled silence from the man holding him.

Lord Holmes was aware that men, women and children who were unfortunate enough to be captured by Barbary pirates were sold to slave traders. Corsairs, as the pirates were called, had been known to kidnap adults and children from not only the Caucuses but the coastal villages of Greece, Italy, France and even, on occasion, as far north as Ireland. Lord Holmes also knew that a portion of the trade was for sexual slavery. The boys captured often became köçekler, youth who performed provocative dance in Turkish taverns. British travelers had written descriptions of the boys, who, after their stage performances, were made sexually available to the highest bidder. The practise had been outlawed in Turkey in 1837, but it continued to thrive in secret, all the more lucrative for the boys' owners because of it. Other boys worked as tellaks or masseurs in hammam, the Turkish baths or as sāqī, servers in coffee houses where they were sexually available to paying customers. Fair haired, light-skinned youth were the most valuable.

All of this repulsed Lord Holmes. He was a fastidious man in his private life, in sharp contrast to his deliberately crafted reputation. There had been few lovers and then only men of his social equal. The thought of John trapped in some grimy tavern’s back room, terrified and weeping while a drunken patron forced himself on him, horrified Lord Holmes to a degree he had never felt before. Trying to stay in control of his emotions, he damped down the white-hot rage flaring in his chest and settled for tightening his arms around John and promising him urgently, "Listen to me, John. I know life has been harsh for you and you aren't used to trusting anyone but believe me, I meant what I said when you first came to me, that I will make sure you get safely to England to find your family. I swear that to you!" 

Gradually, whether due to his promise or his comforting embrace, Lord Holmes wasn't sure, but to his relief he felt John begin to soften against him.

For John, who couldn't remember ever being held close by anyone, apart from a dim memory of his mother, this unexpected experience, though blissful, was emotionally overwhelming. To his embarrassment, he felt tears welling up in his eyes, the result of days of physical pain and fear that had left him physically and emotionally weakened. Now feeling safe for the first time in as long as he could remember, the tears of relief wanted to flow. But he fought fiercely to hold them back. First panicking, he thought, and now crying like a child, what must this amazing man think of me?

Lord Holmes thought nothing ill of him, apparently, for now that he had him in the circle of his arms he seemed loath to let John go and drew back only at the sound of a sharp knock on his cabin door. Before answering it, however, he looked down for a long moment, studying John's face intently. Apparently satisfied with what he saw, he gifted John with a rakish wink, made all the more so by the blood stained bandage wound around his wind tossed black curls, and said, "Now young John, I believe the locals are anxious to make our acquaintance, shall we oblige them with a formal introduction?"


	7. Chapter 7

As it turned out, Lord Holmes was correct, which was starting to be no surprise to John. It was indeed the villagers from Sarköy approaching, not the Barbary corsairs John so feared. Lord Holmes, obviously having anticipated something of the kind occurring, was a whirlwind of activity in the minutes before the fishing boats reached the gunnels of the stricken Wind Shadow. Having engaged the Captain in a rapid planning session upon his arrival at his cabin, Lord Holmes had then emptied the ship's safe and instructed Captain Barrow to distribute the considerable amount of gold and bank notes among the crew members. He explained that once rescued and ashore, he and Hudson intended to proceed overland to Gelibolu as soon as possible but that the crew should wait in Sarköy for the arrival of the weekly mail steamer that would ferry them to Gelibolu. From there, they would proceed by ship to Athens. From Athens, their passage home to England would be arranged by the Marquis of Bosham's agent in London. The Captain was to remain responsible for the well-being of the crew for as long as they chose to remain in the employ of the Marquis. The cash dispersal would assist them to purchase anything they may require before they reached home (the amount of money distributed to each astounded John, who could have lived comfortably for years on such a sum).

Having made provision for the welfare of the crew, Lord Holmes explained to Captain Barrow that if anyone was to enquire after himself or Hudson, they were to be informed that the only men observed disembarking the Wind Shadow in Sarköy were the crew. He and Hudson were to disappear from this time forward. He then requested three crewmen's uniforms; one each for himself, Hudson and John.

Once the Captain had left to carry out his various instructions, Lord Holmes turned to John and Hudson to request their assistance in removing the maps and papers from the walls, the floor and the desk. Once done, he thrust all of them out through the cabin's porthole where they disappeared rapidly into the sea.

Once the cabin was completely bare of books, maps and papers, in fact, anything that could have provided anyone who came looking with information as to his recent activities, Lord Homes turned to John. With a light hand on John's shoulder, he quietly but firmly informed him that although he himself and Hudson would be leaving as soon as they had obtained supplies from Sarköy to begin their overland journey, John was to stay with Captain Barrow. The Captain would ensure John's safety on the journey home and once in England, he would accompany John to the Marquis of Bosham's residence in London. There John was to wait for Lord Holmes' arrival, at which time Lord Holmes would assist him to locate his family and then accompany John to meet them.

John, still and somewhat pale, listened quietly and then glanced away briefly before looking up into Lord Holmes implacable face. He faltered a little, but he responded from his heart, "Please Lord Holmes, I would rather go with you. Take me with you! Please!"

"No, John, it is too dangerous. I cannot allow it!"

John looked at his feet miserably, he hated to be a nuisance and a burden but he couldn't under any circumstances bring himself to consider separation from Lord Holmes. "I won't slow you down, I swear. I'm very tough and I can help you…"

"I know your strength and courage John, it isn't that. You don't understand, it's going to be very dangerous for reasons I cannot explain now and I won't risk your safety in such a manner!"

Hudson, who was still in the room, but who had remained silent until now, cleared his throat gently. "Begging you pardon Sir, but it may be as well to have John along with us, for various reasons; familiarity with the language… local customs…"

"What?! Hudson!"

"I simply raise the point, Sir. And there are two of us to protect him…"

"But Hudson!" Lord Holmes looked imploringly at his valet.

"Yes, Sir." Hudson's voice was gentle with understanding and his tone held a wealth of meaning beyond his words as Sherlock stared at him, anxiety and uncertainty written plainly on his face.

Hudson returned his gaze steadily and calmly.

John, feeling sadly unwanted but determined, said nothing.

There was a tense silence while Lord Holmes stared at Hudson before finally capitulating and turning to John. "John, I…." he began, but seemed at a loss to continue. He began again, "I'm honoured that you wish to accompany me and offer your assistance, please understand that I refused only because I'm concerned with your safety. I would wish that you stay with the Captain for no reason other than my desire to ensure that. Our route will be very dangerous, but knowing this, if you still wish to accompany Hudson and me, then I accept your offer of assistance with gratitude."

Although astounded at this speech, John did not question Lord Holmes change of mind. He simply nodded and awaited further instructions; the first of which was to don the ill-fitting sailor's uniform handed to him. He then assisted Hudson to pack the articles that they would need on their journey over the low mountain range that lay between and Sarköy and Gelibolu. John took responsibility for their medical supplies, packing carefully as he knew a fall or other accident could easily occur in the rugged terrain surrounding Sarköy, and there would be no assistance available along the isolated ways they would follow. He then assisted Hudson to pack blankets, candles, matches and rope. Hudson informed John that they would purchase enough food and water from the villagers to carry with them. The trip would take three days. John had little to pack of his own possessions although he carefully rolled up his new clothes and his old canvas coat in a small pack.

Preparations complete, Hudson and John joined Lord Holmes once more in his cabin where John marveled at what chameleon the man was. In the borrowed uniform, he looked exactly like a privileged middle-ranked sailor; the proud employee of the British nobility. The bandage helped of course, he managed to project just the right degree of wounded dignity, suggesting surprise at the notion of actually having sustained an injury while carrying out his duties. Hudson too appeared no longer to be the versatile and invaluable valet of an English aristocrat, but a grizzled old sailor, fortunate enough to spend his last years at sea in the relative ease and comfort of a rich man's private yacht. For his part, John doubted whether he looked at all convincing as a cabin boy and resolved to try harder to appear wide-eyed, eager and excited to be involved in such an adventure at sea.

After a brief confab as to what their next steps would be, Lord Holmes turned to John, "One more thing John, you must stop referring to me as Lord Holmes. My Christian name is Sherlock." Then, belying the seriousness of his tone, he winked at John and said, "A difficult name to forget, I'm told."

And just like that, everything was well in John's world again; somehow he was alight with happiness although he wasn't quite sure why.

The small fleet of fishing boats approaching the lolling, stricken Wind Shadow was comprised of a rather haphazard band of wreckers; men and boys far too cheerful to be threatening and just as pleased at the prospect of a visit and news of the outside world as they were to salvage wrecked ships. They happily agreed to tow the sail boat to shore, making quick work of it. Within minutes the Wind Shadow was securely tied to the village's longest wharf. The village elderly along with women and children had crowded onto the wharf to greet them. They were welcomed more like family come from afar than the English strangers they were. The injured men were tut-tutted over and assisted ashore by concerned hands and there appeared to be stiff competition as to who among the villagers should get to play host to the interesting visitors.

Amidst the excited buzz, Sherlock stood on the wharf along with the rest of the crew, careful to bring no attention to himself. His eyes were drawn to John though; he stilled in a moment of fascination watching the morning sun, glorious in a blue sky scrubbed clean by wind and rain, reflect the gold of John's hair and light up the deep blue of his eyes, framed by golden lashes. It struck Sherlock in that moment what a beautiful boy John was and not just in his appearance. John appeared to glow with something brighter than sunlight, there was an essential goodness that radiated from some inner light source all John's own, that in Sherlock's eyes for a moment eclipsed even the brilliance of the Mediterranean sun. Sherlock shook his head and blinked at his absurdly poetic thoughts. Good grief! He had always dismissed poetry as ridiculous and now he was spouting it like Lord Byron? It must be the head injury...


	8. Chapter 8

The villagers of Sarköy overwhelmed the exhausted, battered crew of the Wind Shadow with their hospitality; they drew chairs and tables together in the village's small whitewashed courtyards, sheltered by stone walls swathed in pink bougainvillea and fragrant climbing roses. Red geraniums bloomed in clay pots and clumps of aromatic herbs clung to small deposits of earth between the stones. Seated in these welcome sanctuaries the men were offered wine and an array of bread, goat cheese and dry olives for their refreshment.

By evening, those who were staying in the village to await the arrival of the weekly steamer had been settled comfortably as guests in village homes. With bedding retrieved from the Wind Shadow, Hudson prepared temporary sleeping quarters on a sheltered portico adjacent to the tiny village's main courtyard for Sherlock, John and himself.

It was here, at Hudson's urging John lay down to sleep in the early evening. Resting in his makeshift bed, comforted by the low murmur of Sherlock and Hudson's voices nearby, he watched the cool dusk creep down from the hills to eventually swallow the sea. He heard a goat bell ring high in the hills as a herd was gathered for the night. Fragrant night blooms mingled with the salty sea air teased his nose. He had never felt as happy as he closed his eyes and slept.

They set out at dawn the next day. John was puzzled by the lack of a map, given that they were not familiar with the region, but Sherlock seemed to know the location of the path and the direction in which they should travel. It wasn't long before John realized to his amazement that Sherlock must have memorized the maps he had been studying prior to their rescue from the Wind Shadow. It was clear he did not intend to travel by the main roads for they kept to a narrow track wide enough only for foot traffic. John was oriented enough to know that they were heading south, which put them in the direction of Gelibolu.

They hadn't traveled far before the path narrowed further to what seemed to be a goat or sheep herder's track. The sea was to their left, visible only in glimpses caught between the rocky outcrops and shrubbery, and the steep ridge of bare hills was to their right. The vegetation was mostly scrub with the occasional small olive or oak tree braving the wind and salt air coming off the ocean. They passed the odd pine tree too, still fragrant from the cool night. Other plants lent their perfume to the air; small patches of lavender, thyme and rosemary grew along the path and tufts of golden germander which John knew was commonly used to treat inflammation, insect bites and skin infections. He caught flashes of small lizards darting among the low plants, looking for a breakfast of a slow moving bug or two.

They walked single file, Lord Holmes in front, John in the middle and Hudson following. John was uncomfortably aware that Sherlock was not moving at the speed with which he easily could have, and probably for John's sake. Mindful of this, he stopped looking around at his surroundings and concentrated on the path before him and walking as quickly as he could.

They stopped close to mid-day for a rest and to eat a small meal of cheese and bread. They didn't linger over their lunch; choosing to continue, for although the sun was high, the path had become shaded as it wound slightly inland through densely growing oaks, strawberry trees, olives and myrtle.

By late afternoon, although they had made several brief stops to rest and drink water, John was finding it all he could do to put one foot in front of the other. He was focusing entirely on making his tired legs move when Sherlock unexpectedly came to an abrupt halt in front of him. Amost running into him, John was just about to voice a question when Sherlock raised a finger to his lips to silence him, gripped his arm and began to pull him off the path. But it was too late. Into their view came a group of men; blue uniformed soldiers who saw the three of them immediately. John heard Sherlock hiss under his breath as he pushed John firmly behind him.

As he did so, the first soldier raised his weapon and barked at them to halt and surrender. John quailed. The rough order had been spoken in Russian.

There were six soldiers in all. They surrounded the three travelers who had no choice but to surrender. They were searched and their knives confiscated before the soldiers turned and retraced the route by which they'd come; herding Hudson, Sherlock and John along the path in front of them. It soon became obvious why, for after about half an hour of walking, the trees thinned and the path opened up onto bare rock walled by sandstone cliffs. It was here, at a hastily erected temporary camp, that the soldiers tied Sherlock, John and Hudson's hands behind their backs with rope and shoved them roughly to the ground to sit while they argued about what to do with the three of them.

Sherlock took advantage of the distraction to observe the soldiers in detail: unkempt uniforms… slovenly appearance… uneasy camaraderie; there was no trust among them, that was obvious… edgy and wary for some reason… Ah; so a rogue company then, deserters, probably trying to reach Gelibolu to find a ship to take them north to the Black Sea. It would have been too risky for deserters to try to escape back through their army's own lines, where if caught they'd be executed.

One of the older men appeared to be the informal leader. He had a second-in-command; a stocky man with an aggressive demeanour who obviously relied on force more than intelligence to get his way. He had a fondness for drink too, if the redness of his face and bleary eyes were any indication. The other four were young men and inexperienced soldiers, likely not long off the farm.

Sherlock considered what he had learned. Escape from a small band of six would be easier than if their captors had been a full unit of soldiers, but with nothing to lose these men were more dangerous than regular troops. He, Hudson and John would be kept alive only until their captors were certain that the three of them were traveling alone and had no companions to search for them should they be discovered missing. Under the circumstances, he, John and Hudson would have to escape soon. In their favour, dusk was approaching and darkness increased their chances of success.

Sherlock studied each man individually, anticipating what their reactions might be to an escape attempt. His eyes rested on the stocky, barrel-chested soldier whom he had noted earlier as a secondary leader. He observed that the man seemed to be watching John rather than joining in the argument with his fellows. Sherlock wondered what sort of risk the man thought John could be, John gave every appearance of being just a shy cabin boy of no threat...

It was then with a start that Sherlock realized his mistake: the man was stupid yes, but cunning. His expression dissolved into pure greed when he thought he was unobserved; his eyes locked on John and his face slackened with lust. Sherlock, alarmed, glanced quickly at John, hoping he hadn't noticed the man's attention. But John's cheeks were pale under his tan, his breathing was shallow and his left hand was trembling. He's terrified, realized Sherlock, furious with himself for not observing this sooner. He tried now to make eye contact with John to reassure him but John had withdrawn into himself, feeling helpless and vulnerable, which he is all too used to, thought Sherlock angrily.

They would escape before any harm could come to John, Sherlock assured himself grimly, he would make sure of it, but to succeed they must wait until full darkness.


	9. Chapter 9

Meanwhile the other soldiers, unable to agree on what to do with their captives, had begun to pass around wine – bottles likely stolen from a local farmer or inn keeper. The main disagreement among the men seemed to be over the likelihood of obtaining money somehow in exchange for the prisoners. The wine flowing, it wasn’t long before the most forceful members of the company were shouting drunkenly at one another and paying no attention to the prisoners. 

Sherlock observed this turn of events with satisfaction. He couldn’t have planned a better diversion to keep the men’s attention away from himself, Hudson and John. They had simply to wait now until the right moment presented itself. 

Darkness fell and the soldiers, the two least inebriated of the company, staggered up to light a fire. It was while they were doing this that Sherlock took the opportunity to work his bonds loose. Hudson wasn’t far behind; his hands were free also before their action suddenly came to the attention of one of the men at the fire. The soldier gave a shout of warning and launched himself at Sherlock, followed by the rest of his comrades. Drunk though, they weren’t a match for Sherlock and Hudson and were soon laid out on the hard rock. 

Once the soldiers were taken care of, Sherlock swung around to assist John, who he was aware had not been able to free himself. To his alarm, however, John was nowhere to be seen. His alarm increased when a quick count of the incapacitated soldiers confirmed that one was missing − the stocky man who had had his eye on John earlier. Desperate, Sherlock scanned the area surrounding the fire for evidence as to which direction John had been taken. He found what he was looking for immediately; signs of a scuffle and drag marks in the sand leading away from the fire. He gave a vicious curse and leapt into the darkness to follow the trail. 

John was indeed being dragged away from Sherlock and Hudson. Terror rising in his throat, he resisted his abductor, digging his heels into the ground, but it was unable to obtain a solid purchase on the sand smoothed rock. It was just out of sight of the fire that he found himself thrown to the ground, stunned almost senseless from the force of his landing. He had no chance to recover before the soldier threw himself on top of him. 

John struggled wildly against the stench of liquor in his face. His abductor landed a vicious blow to his cheek, his arms were wrenched tortuously back against his injured shoulder−the rope cutting his wrists− and worst of all cruel lips attacked his mouth in a mockery of a kiss. But he kept fighting like a mad thing, bashing his forehead against his attacker’s, kneeing with all his strength in an attempt to get at the man's groin, and when that failed, driving one heel into his spleen while using the other to attempt to lever himself out from under him. 

“You like it rough do you?” snarled the soldier, “So do I boy, I’ll show you rough! I’ll tear you apart!”

He slapped a filthy paw against John's throat and began to squeeze while he used the other to forcefully tear the front of John's trousers. John felt cold air and then the rough wool of the man's filthy uniform against his belly and with fresh horror, he felt the man scrabbling wildly at the buttons on his own trousers in an attempt to free himself now that John was exposed. But still John fought and, even as he weakened from the hand squeezing his throat and black dots crowded across his vision, he managed to thwart the man's clumsy attempts to turn him face down in the dirt and mount him. 

His attacker roared in frustration and was raising an arm preparing to punch John in the face again when suddenly he vanished from John’s sight in a rush of cold mountain air; John found himself looking up at only the stars from his position on his back in the dust. But the man hadn't vanished, rather he had been torn from John by an enraged Sherlock who, flying at them out of the night like a demon freed from hell had snatched and flung John’s attacker into the darkness, only to follow the man, bent on finishing him. 

His senses returning, John dazedly turned his head to follow the viciously snarling Sherlock. He couldn't see into the darkness but he could hear dull wet thuds, the sound of flesh hitting flesh and a terrified gurgle from the soldier which was cut-off abruptly so the only noise to be heard after that was the sound of fist meeting flesh and skull meeting stony ground...

"Enough, sir!" Hudson's urgent order interrupted the nauseating sounds. The blows slowed but it was several seconds before they stopped.

"I will kill him!" came the almost unrecognizable hiss of Sherlock's voice, sounding frighteningly like the demon John had imagined.

"No, Sir. John, Sir." The quiet command was issued again and this time Sherlock obeyed, rising from his crouch over the soldier's prostrate body. But he dragged the unconscious soldier up with him to fling him away once again, this time toward the cliff face, in a manner not unlike throwing a sack of waste on a rubbish pit.

"Thank you, Hudson." Sherlock said quietly, sounding almost himself once more as he straightened his jacket sleeves. He then strode over to John, who was still lying motionless where his attacker had left him, too weak to move beyond an attempt to cover himself where his trousers had been torn. Once he had understood he was no longer in danger he had focused his will on trying to regain enough strength to sit up but hadn’t quite managed it yet. As it turned out it wasn't necessary. He found his nakedness covered by Sherlock's seaman’s jacket and light fingers brushed his bruised forehead and cheek as Sherlock asked him urgently how badly hurt he was. At this close proximity even in what little light there was, John could see the both shock and fear in Sherlock’s expression. John tried to reassure him by opening his mouth to speak, but his voice refused to function and no sound came.

Sherlock raised John carefully so he could cut his bonds and free his arms. This brought a gasp of pain from John as his shoulder took the full weight of his arm again. 

“John, I’d like to examine you to see where you are hurt.” 

It was the last thing John wanted, for Sherlock to see him in this state and to know what the soldier had tried to do to him, so he hung his head limply feeling tears start into his eyes which only increased his sense of shame.

“I don’t understand John! I only want to help… I would never hurt you…” Sherlock stopped and then said, “But Hudson is here. Please John, let him assist you…”

Remembering Hudson’s previous care of him, John nodded his consent and Sherlock stepped back to allow Hudson to kneel at John’s side. Hudson was gentle but quick with his examination and once finished he nodded to Sherlock who tentatively made to lift John but then stopped, unsure of himself. John, too exhausted to explain, simply raised his arms to Sherlock, who, full of relief at this gesture of trust, lifted him into his arms and turned to carry him away from that terrible place.

"I'm sorry John, I made a mistake. I underestimated the danger... I will never allow anything like that to happen to you again. I swear it." John thought he felt Sherlock’s cheek touch his hair perhaps in a gesture of remorse or a plea for forgiveness before he raised his head once more and struck out into the night, Hudson close at their side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello readers,  
> Heart in Hiding will be on hold for a little while while I finish other projects. It will return. Thank you for your wonderful support.


	10. Chapter 10

John’s next awareness was of being passed from Sherlock’s arms to Hudson’s. He struggled to right himself, mumbling, only half awake, that he intended to stand and walk. 

“I suggest not, Master John,” Hudson advised calmly. “We’ll be stopping shortly anyway to wait for dawn and daylight. We are only going as far tonight as to be beyond the reach of… possible pursuers. ” 

John shuddered involuntarily at the memory of the soldiers. Hudson, although not mistaking the reason for John’s frightened reaction, responded lightly with, “There’s no reason to be concerned about missing our way in the dark, Master John. His Lordship has eyes like a cat at night, be it London alleys or mountainsides, it’s all the same to him.”

Sherlock’s voice sounded close by, “Not true, in fact, Hudson, these infernal thickets are proving hellish to navigate… we will most certainly stop now that we are safe.” Then almost as an afterthought, he remarked, “and really Hudson, should you be alarming John with talk of nighttime sorties to London’s back alleys…?” His voice trailed off on this mild reproof and he could be heard muttering to himself, “Bloody goat trails!” John, opening his eyes and looking around, could see the outline of Sherlock’s head framed in faint star light, tilted quizzically and staring at something that might be a trail, although as far as John was concerned there was nothing whatsoever to suggest it. Everywhere around them was uniform darkness as far as he could tell. His head began to ache from the strain of trying to see so he gave up and closed his eyes; laying his head down on Hudson’s shoulder once more. Instantly he fell asleep and, as intended, didn’t hear Sherlock’s quiet enquiry, “Is he alright to carry on Hudson?” or Hudson’s softly reassuring answer, “Indeed, my Lord, his is.” 

The next time John awoke it was to find himself lying in the shade of a myrtle bush on thick grass with a clump of purple crocus not far from his nose. The air was warm and fragrant. He blinked as several honey bees, busily extracting nectar from the flowers, came into focus. He could hear Sherlock and Hudson conversing quietly nearby and was about to close his eyes again, given the peacefulness of it all, when suddenly the events of last night came flooding back into his mind.

He sat up in a hurry, instantly regretting it as a wave of dizziness swamped him. Before he could slump over though, Hudson was at his side with a steadying arm and an offer of water. John accepted the drink gratefully and looked about him. The three of them were sitting on a grassy hillside dotted with shrubs; mostly olives, myrtles and laurels. Hudson was beside him and Sherlock close by, at present gazing across a valley spread out before them. Feeling inexplicably awkward when Sherlock turned and smiled at him, John turned his head away hastily to see behind them, quite some way behind them, the grey rocky slopes of the mountains they had obviously just traversed.

“We’ve come such a long way!” he started, only to be interrupted by Sherlock who said loftily, “Not at all. It merely appears that way. It’s an effect of the heat; it makes distances appear far greater than they are.”

John had never heard of this phenomenon before but felt it best to say nothing. Perhaps his head was still muddled. 

Sherlock continued, “When you are feeling up to it, we’ll continue across the valley. But before that, Hudson, shall we have some food?”

The food and water worked wonders for John and he found the going easy enough when they set out once more, at around mid-day he judged. The path took a gentle downward slope for quite some way followed by an equally gentle upward slope on the other side of the valley. They met no one else on their way, not even goats or sheep although there were small birds and butterflies aplenty; their blue, yellow and orange wings flashing brightly as they flitted among the leaves and flowers. 

By late afternoon, with the heat of the day gone and the sun beginning to set, John was flagging again despite his determination to not slow the party down. His head wasn’t aching but he felt unusually weak, probably from the shock of the soldier’s assault. He was hoping Sherlock and Hudson were perhaps tired also, having had no sleep themselves the previous night. He found himself stumbling on a stone more than once as the sun crept behind darkening peaks. 

They were traversing the edge of a gully near the foot of a hill, its grey marble stone seamed and cracked, when Hudson suggested they stop for the night. 

“There appears to be a cave of sorts, just over there,” he said pointing. “Perhaps just the spot to provide us with a little shelter for the night, Sir.”

To John’s relief Sherlock nodded his agreement and they picked their way around boulders toward what turned out to be a substantial space carved out of the hillside; perhaps by an ancient stream. By the time they reached it the daylight had faded entirely. 

Tired as he was, John felt a prickling feeling of unease as they settled on the smooth floor. After the heat of the day, the night air was cold, even in the shelter of the cave. Without the benefit of starlight, it was oppressively black as well. To John, it was frighteningly devoid of light, warmth and comfort. As much as he tried, he was unable to dispel the sense of how alike it was to the cell his stepfather had once locked him in after beating him over some imagined misdeed. That stone-floored room had been airless and dark too and small John, injured and afraid his stepfather would leave him to perish in the dark prison as he threatened, had huddled alone in wretched suffering for hours. 

Now though, John said nothing to Sherlock or Hudson of his growing anxiety about spending the night in the cave, determined as he was not to be any more of an encumbrance or nuisance to them than he was already. Perhaps he could creep outside the entrance of the cave to rest once the other two men were asleep; surely it wouldn’t be any colder outside the cave than in it.

But John was so tired that he fell asleep before he could act on his intention to move outside, which is how Sherlock, sometime later, came to be awoken by his quiet weeping. Sherlock knew it was John. He’d been aware of something dark in John's mood when they had first settled in the cave, over and above the shock and terror of the soldier’s attack. In fact, Sherlock had positioned himself close to John and even placed his own blanket over him once he had thought John asleep. Now, listening to John’s muffled crying he mentally kicked himself for not persisting in finding out what was bothering him because of course, he knew, John would never volunteer the information for fear of inconveniencing them. 

Sherlock didn’t think that John was awake but his quiet weeping was rapidly turning into anguished sobbing so, with his newly awakened heart twisting painfully in his chest, Sherlock acted. Wanting only to alleviate John's suffering, he reached out, rolled John into his arms and cradled him close. 

The feeling was extraordinary! How wonderful it felt to hold John! Sherlock felt a strong possessiveness sweep over him bringing with it the certainty that only he could comfort John in this desperate state. So he held him tightly, clasping his icy, trembling body to his own, stroking his wet cheeks and tucking John's shaking hands firmly against his chest. Murmuring nonsense and patting his back clumsily, he tried to stem the anguish that was welling up and overflowing John. 

Now − in contrast to his cool, pale appearance Sherlock Holmes had the sort of physique that continually radiated warm energy (which was the likely reason he shed excess clothing constantly and rarely felt the need for blankets or nightshirts…) so it was almost instantly that John's subconscious alerted him to unexpected warmth and comfort and he started to wake in confusion. 

"Shhhh… just rest John, just rest here," Sherlock murmured, not stopping his stroking of John's back. "I have you. You got away. You’re safe now. It's alright now. Just rest."

Hearing Sherlock’s voice, full of tenderness and compassion, and absorbing his comforting touch, John responded like a tender new leaf to the first rays of spring sunlight. He unfurled his body against Sherlock's with a sigh, wrapped his arms around the man and went limp.

They both remained awake; Sherlock reveling in his first experience of feeling love for another − and it had to be love, he reasoned, what else could make him feel this strong, this committed and this happy to be the protector and defender of another person? He had never had any patience with snobbery or social elitism, so it bothered him not that he should have become so attached to an unknown homeless boy in such a short time. He knew with a conviction that had been stealing over him for the last several days that John was his to nurture and love and the feeling was pure joy; he had experienced nothing like it before in his own rather lonely life.

John, basking in the affection and warmth that enveloped him, felt a little like the sea tortoises he'd seen on occasion by the shore of the Bosphorus; floating, suspended in the warm water, safely hidden in gently waving sea grass. He let go of conscious thought and basked in physical and emotional bliss. Happiness and contentment flowed through him, warming every part of his body making him hum with pleasure and… what was that? Something else… Oh. Excitement. That kind of excitement.

John at nearly eighteen was well aware of what sexual arousal felt like but he had never experienced it in another's presence. This was new and…. alarming. It seemed to be sweeping over him with the force of lava erupting from a volcano. His soft feeling of serenity was twisting rapidly into a fierce urge to supplicate his body before Sherlock; fiery need was burning up his quiet sense of contentment and his soothing sensation of warmth was giving way to a writhing heat. The force his desire took his breath away and before he knew what was happening it had taken over not only his body but his mind as well, as unbidden images flooded his brain…. Sherlock rising above him, mastering him, his bright eyes blazing over John's exposed heart and soul, owning him as he strained hard and purposefully between John's spread thighs…

"Oh, dear God, where did that thought come from!?" John exclaimed to himself in silent horror. "Heaven above, he can't know what I just thought; I have to get off of his lap! Now!"

"I'm fine now, Sir... um Sherlock," he mumbled in desperation, "Thank you. I'm fine. Please let me go now." Sherlock complied immediately, although at a loss as to what had caused this sudden change in John. John, his blood on fire and a rigid erection straining against his trousers, muttered, "Thank you," again and curled in a tight ball with his back to Sherlock, trying to control his ragged breathing.

Sherlock merely replaced John’s blankets, tucking them around him and, with a light stroke of John's hair, sat back to wait out the darkness of the night. The blanket tucking and the hair stroking, of course, set off another firestorm of glorious physical sensation in John and he bit his lip in an effort not to turn over with a needy moan and spread himself out before Sherlock. Good Lord! What in heaven’s name was happening to him?

But he knew the answer even before he asked the question. It was obvious. I’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t I? That’s what all this has been about. Love. I’m in love with a man who believes I’m a 14 year old boy. Oh, dear God, what have I done?


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here at last is a new chapter. Thank you for being so patient, faithful readers.

Morning's arrival did nothing to dispel the persistent chill in the air; the sunrise filtered weakly through a bank of heavy grey clouds which had bloomed up from the not too distant coastline overnight. Perhaps another storm was brewing out at sea; the restless breeze that tugged at their clothes as they picked their slow way down the rocky, steep hillside toward Gelibolu certainly suggested it.

They had arisen early and packed their few belongings. Hudson had distributed bread and cheese and they'd drunk more of their water. No one suggested lighting a fire to boil tea although hot tea would have been welcome. It was clear now that the hills weren't safe in such unsettled times and a fire would alert others to their presence. The deserting soldiers weren't a concern any longer but the nearer they drew to Gelibolu, the greater their risk of running into bandits or brigands. Gangs of cutthroats were a risk to travelers on foot.

Their third day of travel was taking its toll on them. They spoke little; John because he was afraid of revealing the strong emotions churning inside him; joy at being in the company of the man he loved with all his heart and terror lest the object of his affections learn of them. Sherlock was silent presumably because he was strategizing as to what their first move should be once they reached the city. Hudson, steadfast as always, kept his own council, although he cast thoughtful glances at the other two when neither was looking.

And so the day wore on. By afternoon the small breeze had grown into a cutting wind which was followed shortly thereafter by a shower of cold rain. The dust on road they were treading turned quickly to mud.

With the late summer storm bringing early darkness there was no help for it but to seek shelter before they reached the city. They spied, not far off the road, what appeared to be an abandoned farm house and made their way toward it. It was derelict; up close they could see boarded up broken windows and missing patches of white plaster on the foliage draped walls. Still, it would provide a modicum of shelter for the night.

It was not to be. They discovered too late that they were not the first to arrive at this conclusion. As they stepped through the open door, to their astonishment they found themselves surrounded by a group of shadowy figures. Men, it turned out; threatening characters who were obviously up to no good, hiding as they were from strangers.

"Brigands!" Sherlock exclaimed, "and we like flies into their spider web! Damn it all to hell!"

There was an unpleasant round of laughter from the men surrounding them at his furious curse. Lamps were lit and sure enough the men turned out to be a frightening lot; rough looking and armed with knives and cudgels. The uncouth laughter increased when the brigands got a good look at their captives; merely an old man, a thin Englishman and a boy, the three almost as dirty and ragged as themselves.

"Well, well, a fine catch we have," crowed the gang's apparent leader. "Better than we expected of this day that's certain! Perhaps worth gold to your employer, we shall see, but at the very least you'll be entertainment for me and my friends!" He made this last statement while looking with unpleasant interest at John. Sherlock hissed under his breath. Both he and Hudson moved imperceptibly closer to John, who fought down the panic which, never far away, rose in his throat and made his heart pound.

The gang leader was speaking English which wasn't too surprising; the three of them likely weren't the first of their nationality these robbers had intercepted. Since the Crimean War the British had maintained a presence in Gelibolu; manning the gun defenses that guarded the entrance to the Black Sea, a strategically important site in recent European conflicts. At least a few unfortunates among them had likely been kidnapped by these cutthroats.

"Enough talk. What do you intend to do with us?" Sherlock questioned coldly.

"You, Englishman? Nothing−for now. You and the old man can take advantage of our hospitality in the other room. The boy? He'll stay with us." He wrapped a rough hand around John's arm.

"Unhand him." Sherlock's voice was steely.

"Is that a challenge to fight, Englishman? I hope so. It will give me great pleasure to kill you in front of your companions."

"As you wish."

John sucked in his breath in horror at Sherlock's announcement. "No!" he exclaimed.

"Your köçek fears for your life, Englishman. And so he should." The gang leader then turned and demanded in Domari to his second in command, "Knives!"

"Please, don't do this Sherlock! I would rather do as they want, than… than…" John stuttered to Sherlock.

Sherlock stared down at him in silence for a moment, the expression on his face unreadable. Then he gave a slight smile, "I'll assume your anxiety is concern for my well-being and not lack of confidence in my fighting abilities, John!" He said this in a lightly teasing tone. Then his voice hardened and he added, "Don't be concerned; I've been up against tougher combatants than this overly cocky oaf!" The last comment he said loud enough for his opponent to overhear. The man's lips curled back in a threatening smile.

John insisted, "But this is different; this is street fighting without rules! Sailors, they practice this type of knife fighting in ports all around the Mediterranean, men die!"

"John," Sherlock's gaze met John's again and he lifted his hand to touch John's cheek lightly, "Trust me, it will be alright." He turned, "Hudson?"

There was nothing John could do except to allow himself to be drawn back from the lit circle by Hudson's hand on his shoulder. Perhaps it was due to his overwhelming fear, but to John the lamps cast ominous flickering shadows against the walls; Sherlock's dark outline twisted forward and backward at unnatural angles in the orange glow. John's heart clenched in anxiety and he felt it hard to breathe. If Sherlock were to be hurt or worse he didn't think he could stand it.

The two combatants stood in the circle of light. Sherlock fixed his opponent with a hard stare and said, "If I win, the boy stays with us. I have your word on this? Your… colleagues will not interfere?" He used the term with barely restrained mockery.

"You do not need to concern yourself with that, Englishman! For you will not win!" the gang leader boasted. There was a swell of approval from his followers which he acknowledged with a bold grin. Turning to the man who had brought the knives, he said, "Antoine will announce when we shall begin!" Then, in a show of mock courtesy he indicated to Sherlock that he should choose a knife first from where they lay atop an upturned barrel.

Sherlock didn't accept the invitation immediately; instead he began slowly to withdraw his arms from his jacket sleeves and to hand the coat to Hudson. He then did the same with his collarless woolen undershirt, folding it carefully before handing that to Hudson as well. Finally, bare-chested, with his lean arms loose at his sides; he stilled and stared at his opponent in a calculating manner, his look so intense that the man, despite himself, checked his own stance restlessly. John, watching them, thought he'd go mad with the tension of the moment.

Just as his opponent was about to demand that they get on with the fight; Sherlock came alive and stepped forward to select the first knife. The two alternated until they were both armed with two short, pointed, double-sided daggers. They then raised their knives and stood facing one another.

John, feeling he was in some terrible waking nightmare, heard the start of the fight called and closed his eyes momentarily unable to watch. When he opened them he saw Sherlock's challenger on the offensive, clearly trying to unnerve Sherlock with his aggressiveness. After a couple of experimental sallies, he lunged at Sherlock and made a vicious swipe with his knife; aiming at Sherlock's left side in a move calculated not to wound but rather to kill. Sherlock would have been eviscerated had the knife struck its target. John bit down hard on his lip and tasted blood; unable to close his eyes now he felt himself sway weakly into Hudson. He heard Hudson mutter quietly in anger beside him.

It was obvious that the man was skilled in this form of combat; as the fight progressed, his lunges outnumbered Sherlock's by a considerable number. There was no doubt that Sherlock was on the defensive. The man's mates thought so too, exclaiming with excitement at each of his attempted stabs, anticipating that an easy victory would soon be at hand.

John could only stand and watch, praying as hard as he could for Sherlock to prevail. He wasn't concerned for his own well-being; he was concerned only for Sherlock, knowing that if Sherlock was badly injured or killed, he himself would not want to go on living. This realization had just emblazoned itself onto his consciousness when suddenly what he feared the most happened; Sherlock, leaping backward, failed to fully evade a particularly aggressive swipe of the knife in his opponent's hand. It grazed across his chest; opening a sickly glistening red streak in its path. Hudson and John both heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath as he leapt sideways, this time to avoid a potentially fatal second strike.

The gang members were ecstatic with excitement at this turn of events, cheering on their fellow to finish the fight. John, sick with horror, felt dizzy and struggled to stay upright beside Hudson. But Sherlock's composure didn't waver; he appeared not to notice the blood running down his stomach from his wound, focusing as he was on his opponent's next move.

The deadly dance continued, the brigand nearer to Sherlock now, closing the distance between them to only an arm's length. It was at this point that John saw, rather than heard, Sherlock say something to the other man. John had no idea what; the words were uttered in a low, pointed tone, obviously directed exclusively to the man he was fighting. Whatever was said though, it shattered the man's focus and he had an unmistakable moment of indecision. It was all Sherlock needed; with a lightning-fast foot, he kicked his opponent in lower leg, leaning back sharply as he did so to avoid the man's stabbing knife. Terrified as he was, John marveled at Sherlock's extraordinary speed; he was like liquid in motion as he avoided the deadly blades of his opponent.

The ruffian's leg crumpled but he didn't fall; he staggered and regained his balance. Then, like the proverbial bull before the red flag; bellowing in rage and pain he threw himself recklessly at Sherlock. With the man barreling into him with both knives raised, one ready to stab and the other to slash, Sherlock kicked again, this time high on his opponent's body with another movement so fast it was a blur to those watching. Before the gang leader could recover Sherlock drove his knife into the man's left shoulder and pulled it out again, dodging out of the way as the man howled in pain and swung wildly at him with his uninjured arm.

With Sherlock's last move the fight was over. The gang members muttered uncomfortably between them, seemingly unsure of what had happened to cause their leader to lose the match so quickly and so thoroughly. And their Master of the Knives was certainly beaten: the serious wound in his shoulder streamed freely with blood and his arm hung uselessly at his side as he spit and glared at Sherlock with his chest heaving.

But Sherlock wasn't done; the fight was over, yes, but something new and savage seemed to take hold of him. His expression hardened and his eyes blackened as he faced the villain before him. He surged forward suddenly and struck the man on the chin with a fist, dropping him to the floor. Then, standing over him with deliberate intent, he lifted his booted foot and trod it forcefully into the man's shoulder wound.

The ensuing scream rattled the very rafters of the roof but Sherlock ignored it. "The boy stays with me," he ground out, ignoring the involuntary gasps of shock around him at the brutality of his action. When the gang leader didn't answer soon enough for him, Sherlock's face twisted and he trod on the man's pierced shoulder again and ordered, quite murderous now, "Capitulate or you die!"

"Arvah, atch! Yes, stop!" The wounded man managed to croak out.

Even as he said it, Hudson was moving toward Sherlock, John in tow, to lead their way into the other room. One of the brigands followed them, slamming and barricading the door behind them with a curse. But before the lamp light from the main room was obscured, falling in beside Sherlock, John had gotten a close look at the wound on his chest.

"Hudson!" he said urgently, "His wound, the bleeding!"

"Yes, Master John, what do you need?"

"My bed roll! Tear my linen shirt into strips, quickly! And we need light, of course."

The room was completely dark; no light at all found its way in through the boarded up windows. Hudson, however, found a candle and matches, in either his own or John's rolled bundle, and used them to provide some light. Sherlock sat gingerly on what looked to be a broken crate, the closest of several objects in the room. John could see the pallor creeping into his complexion and a tremor as he put an exploratory hand to his bloody chest.

John knew the faster he could work the better. He was extremely worried. They had minimal medicinal supplies; certainly nothing to deal properly with stab wounds. Sherlock had lost a not inconsiderable amount of blood; even if they could stop the bleeding temporarily and apply a basic antiseptic, he still needed stitches. They must escape somehow.

"This will hurt, I'm sorry Sherlock." he said as he applied camphor oil directly to Sherlock's ugly gash with a clean bandage. He tried not to notice when Sherlock's breathing stopped and his torso went rigid in agony. With Hudson's assistance he then applied a clean bandage to the wound and secured it as best he could with the strips of cloth torn from his new shirt.

When Sherlock spoke, his voice almost normal, it was to ask of Hudson, "A way out?"

"I believe so, Sir."

"Good, we haven't much time. Their mate is likely dying, it won't take long. If he does they'll want to even the score."

John looked up at Sherlock urgently, "And you, sir, you need more medical care then I can give you here… stronger disinfectant and stitches …"

"By all means John, I confess I quite miss my head bandage. I've become accustomed to your ministrations; I'd be lost without my physician." His tone was lighthearted in an attempt to ease John's obvious anxiety, but his complexion, if anything, was even paler than before and beads of perspiration were now visible on his forehead.


	12. Chapter 12

They picked their way back to the main road in heavy darkness. John could feel Sherlock, propped up between him and Hudson stumbling and slipping on the muddy track. Despite the woollen undershirt and his jacket, Sherlock was shaking from cold as well as from the shock of his injuries. Hudson and John still had their travel bundles, mercifully, but they had been forced to leave Sherlock’s behind, confiscated by the gang during the fight. 

John strained his eyes desperately hoping to see the light of a cottage or other dwelling where they might ask for shelter. He hadn’t much hope given that the night was well advanced by now and most inhabitants of Gelibolu would be long abed. 

At least John’s fear of re-capture had been allayed. Hudson had reassured him that it was unlikely the gang would search for them once it was discovered that they had escaped. The gang members would be too fearful of arrest to follow them, ruffians such as they rarely sought out people to rob; they usually victimized those with whom they happened to cross paths. Also, they would be pre-occupied with their leader’s dire condition.

The three were well past the outskirts of the city before at last they came upon a visibly lit building. Hudson, wasting no time, thumped on the door of what a sign proclaimed to be a Traveller’s Inn. It appeared decrepit and shabby even in the dim light cast by a lamp burning over the entrance but they were not in a position to be choosy about accommodations. John, almost collapsing under the weight of Sherlock who was breathing with exertion and leaning heavily against him, hovered in the shadows as Hudson, the only member of the party not stained with blood, negotiated a room from the half-asleep proprietor who appeared in answer to their knock. The groggy innkeeper, reassured of Hudson’s legitimacy by the obvious quality of his seaman’s uniform, handed over a key in exchange for some coins without question. He gestured down a hallway before ascending the stairs heavily and retiring back to bed without a backward glance at his late night guest.

Once certain that the innkeeper was in his room, John and Hudson manoeuvered Sherlock through the entrance and down the hall to their rented room. It was furnished sparsely with a narrow bed and one chair. In the corner near a window was a washstand. It would have to do. 

They lowered Sherlock gingerly onto the bed. Remarkably, despite his obvious state of traumatic shock he remained lucid and coherent although he struggled to catch his breath. 

He spoke for the first time in many minutes, between gasps he urged, “Hudson! Leave me here and take John… to the docks. There will be a… steamer there going to… Athens in the morning. Buy your passage out… to London. Take John to… Ashling Court… wait for Mycroft…”

Before John could open his mouth in protest, Hudson responded with a cool and unhurried, “Certainly not Sir, John is safe enough here for now and you need his physician’s skills if you are to recover from this injury.”

“Damn it, Hudson!”

“… and, if I may say so, your new-found affinity for cursing is quite beneath you, Sir.”

At this, Sherlock, too weak to continue to argue subsided on the bed. In the light of the coal-oil lamp John had lit, he and Hudson could see that Sherlock’s face was ashen and slick with perspiration. 

“The blood loss was stopped by the bandaging but we must warm him and make him keep still Hudson! He is suffering from nervous shock. He must stop agitating his mind! Even if I had the proper supplies I daren’t stitch his wound until the shock is passed.”

“Take his hand Master John, while I cover him. That will help to calm you both.” John was too distracted to notice anything remarkable about this statement. He simply grasped Sherlock’s cold hand in his own and, seeing Sherlock’s eyelids shutter at his touch, began to speak to him in a soothing tone while Hudson deftly wrapped all the bedding that was on the bed around Sherlock.

“You were amazing tonight Sir, simply amazing!” John’s voice betrayed awe as he looked down at Sherlock.

“Do you… think so, John?” Sherlock’s bright eyes flickered open briefly to look at him, as if to assure himself that John was sincere.

“Oh yes, Sir!”

Sherlock managed a slight smile, “…it is called Baritsu… a martial art form… I first picked it up in… Japan… been practising it now for… some time… it’s more than once… been useful… to me...”

John responded with open admiration, “You saved our lives tonight, Sir!” 

Sherlock began to mutter in French, “Savate de rue… a coup de pied bas… fouetté figure… direct du bras arrière…”

At John’s expression of alarm Hudson explained, “He’s not feverish, it is merely the names of baritsu kicks and punches.” He added, “I can see he is settling now, I suggest you stay with him while I find the kitchen. There will be a brick or stone near the fireplace which we can wrap in a cloth to him to warm him further.”

John nodded abruptly without looking up. He held Sherlock’s hand and listened to him mumble French from between lips that were frighteningly close to the colour of the pillow on which he was lying.

Within moments, true to his word Hudson returned with a cloth bundle. It exuded considerable heat John found when he touched it. Together they placed it snugly beside Sherlock and re-wrapped the blankets around him.

There was nothing to do now but wait and pray that warmth and rest would help Sherlock overcome the immediate shock of his injury. John had read the research of French surgeon Alfred Velpeau with great interest particularly the famous surgeon’s theory of nervous shock, which he had observed in patients with gunshot wounds. He knew that Sherlock must be kept quiet and warm if he was to not succumb to it. Once the time for shock was passed safely, John could stitch the wound as it required.

The remainder of the night passed slowly for John of course, hours always do when one is consumed with anxiety for one’s beloved. At the first hint of grey dawn, when he observed him to be still wide-awake, Hudson insisted that John take a turn resting in the room’s only chair. John agreed reluctantly, intending not to sleep, but given that his constitution wasn’t as strong as other young men his age, he soon found his eyes sliding shut from exhaustion. From then until morning it was Hudson who watched both Sherlock and John sleep, his expression open with unguarded affection such as was rarely seen under ordinary circumstances. 

Hours later John awoke with a start to find Hudson entering the room with a tray in hand. It was obviously morning time judging by the weak light filtering through the grimy window of their room. 

“There’s little breakfast to be had here. We will have to make do with tea and figs and some very dry goat’s cheese,” Hudson announced, aggrieved. 

Wide awake, John’s attention was wholly on Sherlock, “How is he?! I shouldn’t have slept…!”

“He is no worse Master John, holding his own, I should say. As he is asleep, you would have been unwise to do anything had you been awake anyway. Drink your tea and eat a little food. You may then tell me what is best to do for the Earl now.” 

After checking Sherlock’s pulse and complexion, John obeyed Hudson and ate the sparse breakfast while he considered what would be best next step for his patient.

Hudson bent toward him to say quietly, “We’ve no money left I’m afraid, m’lord’s possessions being gone as they are, it’s left us with not much to go on.” He was trying to hide his concern but John was fully aware of the seriousness of their situation, if without funds. 

“I’ve an idea Hudson, don’t worry about money. I think I can get what we need to take care of him,” he glanced at Sherlock, “But I’ll need to go out to purchase them,” he said reluctantly, “I’ll be a quick as I can...”

“I shall certainly endeavour to see that no further harm comes to him,” said Hudson with dignity. 

John blushed, “I didn’t mean… I’m just worried…” he trailed off.

Hudson didn’t appear to notice his confusion, “As you suggest then, do what you can, Master John, we’ll await your return.”

John could hardly force himself to leave the room so great was his desire to stay with Sherlock but he knew he must obtain medical supplies; it was vital to Sherlock’s survival that his wound be treated properly. He thought he detected a flicker of awareness in Sherlock’s face when he bent over him one final time before departing. But when Sherlock’s eyes didn’t open he decided he had been mistaken. 

He scrubbed a handful of dust; there was no shortage of it in their room, over his face and hair. He then tied a strip of cloth around his head to hide any wayward blonde strands that still might be visible. His trousers were filthy already so they didn’t need disguising and once he donned his old jacket he looked very much like the dirty street creature he intended.

He bid Hudson a brief farewell and, after ensuring the landlord was nowhere about he slipped out of the window of their room and moved quickly away from the inn. Once out of sight, he slowed a little, his limp quite noticable, and began to make his steady way toward the centre of the city, staying to backstreets and allies, working his way toward where he imagined the poorer section of Gelibolu would be. His instincts weren’t wrong, probably thanks in part to his accompanying Molly to assist the sick and injured who suffered in the slums of Constantinople. His knowledge of the layout of Eastern cities was turning out to be as useful as his rudimentary language skills in Turkish and Russian. 

He was good at slipping unnoticed through doorways and arches. After a lifetime of dodging his stepfather’s blows and harsh words, he had a well-honed instinct for avoiding attention. After skirting a large and busy market, he reached the quarter he was looking for, where from dirty alcoves and curtained alleys, men kept watch before ducking into the shadows without making eye contact. Knowing he mustn’t stay long, he selected the first likely looking character he saw to approach; a man lean and hungry in his posture, someone not likely to question the provenance of a diamond brooch. Even if John received a tenth of the value of his mother’s brooch sewn inside his old coat, it would be more than enough to pay for a clean and private room and purchase all the medical supplies he needed to treat Sherlock and give him the best chance of recovery. 

Sherlock’s wellbeing was the only thing that mattered to John. Of course it was a loss to give up his mother’s precious brooch but he took comfort in the knowledge that both his mother and his father would have approved of what he was doing and why, and without question, they would have done the same thing in his place. John loved Sherlock with all his heart and, even if he didn’t already owe Sherlock a great debt, he would give up anything including his own life if it meant saving Sherlock’s. 

John approached the man and opened his grimy hand to reveal the glittering piece of jewelry before closing his fingers over it again and lowering his hand to his side. The man’s eyes narrowed and he nodded almost imperceptibly. This was John’s moment of risk; if he handed the brooch over, the man may steal it and there would be nothing John could do. But he’d come this far and so, with no intention of going back to the inn without what he needed, he thrust the diamond encrusted piece of jewelry into the trader’s rough hand. 

John had chosen well. The man pocketed the brooch with one hand while, to John’s great relief, with the other he pulled a roll of bills from his tunic and pressed it into John’s hand in exchange. Just a glance told John it was enough, of course nowhere near the brooch’s real value, but enough. He pocketed the money and turned and slipped back the way he had come; except this time he plunged straight into the market itself, dodging people, donkeys, goats and tables laden with tobacco, tea, spices, cloth and dried goods. He had disappeared into the fray before anyone else had a chance to notice him, let alone try to follow him.


End file.
